Endless Possibilities
by johnsarmylady
Summary: Something strange is going on - and John can't quite work out what. Sherlock, on the other hand, is hoping that his plan works... A birthday gift for the very lovely, very talented, Mapleleafcameo Rated M because I'm being cautious...


**It's that time of year again, and I find myself posting a birthday fic for the lovely and very VERY talented MapleleafCameo.  
I asked her for three words - she gave me SUGGESTIVE, IRASCIBLE and POSSIBILITIES...and I had fun playing with those!  
Happy birthday M - I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!**

**The italics are John's POV, the bold italics are Sherlock's POV - just in case you hadn't realised - lol!**

There was something about the way Sherlock moved around the dead body on the floor of the empty garage that, if John didn't know better, would have been considered highly **suggestive. **The sway of his hips as he moved from where what was left of the head had bled onto the concrete to where the feet lay, pointing towards the door, was as sensual as a Rumba.

John swallowed hard. He had been trying to keep his mind off the sight that had greeted him when he returned home from the surgery the previous evening, but was struggling even now, and Sherlock – the git – knew it.

xXx

_It had been tiring to say the least, the unseasonable warmth coupled with a major outbreak of chicken pox had led to the reception being filled with hot, itchy, fractious children and their equally hot and sleep deprived mothers. John sympathised. No parent wants their child to feel poorly, and he knew that short of suggesting bathing their little darlings in cool water and covering them in calamine he really could do nothing to ease their suffering – chicken pox generally had to run its course. _

_So when he finally climbed the stairs to 221B all he really wanted to do was have a shower, eat and watch something mindless on telly until bedtime._

_Sherlock it seemed had other ideas._

_The curtains were drawn against the glare of the late afternoon sun, and the windows closed. But instead of feeling hot and airless, there was a shady coolness about the place as Sherlock had no less than three fans circulating air around the room._

_Sherlock himself lay on the couch his fingers steepled under his chin._

_John's eyes travelled from mess of curls dancing playfully in the breeze of a fan on full power, past the closed eyes, on down to the …..what?_

_Sherlock was naked._

_Not a stitch of clothing on his long, lanky alabaster body._

_John gulped back a choked gasp as heat which had very little to do with weather suffused his body._

xXx

_**John had already sounded harassed this morning, even before he left for his shift at the surgery. His grumpy mutterings about the heat and the poor timing of childhood illness epidemics had interrupted Sherlock's train of thought and left him feeling more than a little edgy. Especially when those thoughts had revolved around the good doctor, who was currently licking raspberry jam off his fingers, rolling his tongue around them in a highly erotic manner.**_

_**Moments later, as the front door shut firmly behind him, Sherlock turned his mind back to his plan to get the doctor just where he wanted him. And with Mrs Hudson away it was simple enough a task to slip downstairs and raid her flat for electric fans – after all, why on earth did she need one in every room? Clutching his loot he made haste back to the couch and returned to his machinations.**_

_**Now, with his plan in motion there was no turning back.**_

_**If John was under the impression that he was thinking he'd be wrong. **_

_**Sherlock was currently using every ounce of his self-control to prevent his body reacting to John's hot stare. It wasn't easy. Fortunately his favourite pose meant that he could hide his pebbled and aroused nipples from his flatmate's view, thus leaving him with the herculean task of keeping his blood from rushing to his groin. Silently reciting the periodic tables should do it…**_

_**The movement he heard however didn't sound right, and as the bathroom door slammed shut his eyes popped open – startled. **_

xXx

John still couldn't believe that he had felt the necessity to wank vigorously in the shower to control the raging hard-on left by the sight of Sherlock lounging naked on the couch. In fact, he spent so long in the bathroom that by the time he emerged Sherlock was nowhere to be seen (his bedroom door was firmly shut!) and John found the urge to eat and watch telly had long since given up.

So in the end he had grabbed a cup of tea, a couple of slices of toast and his book off the arm of his chair and sloped off to his room, not really wanting to face whatever was going on in Sherlock's mind.

Yet this morning, instead of being annoying and prying into the why's and wherefores' of the previous night John found that Sherlock had returned to his usual **irascible **self, irritated by the lack of 'the Work' and bemoaning the heat that seems to have fried the brains of even the most idiotic of criminals.

"Well I for one am glad its quiet." John said, placing a cup of tea and a plate of toast in front of the younger man. "Yesterday was almost enough to make me long for retirement…"

"Retirement?" Sherlock sat bolt upright on the couch. "But you're barely middle aged…"

"Yeah, thanks for that." Huffed John, sitting down with his own breakfast. "I'm 43 thank you very much, not middle aged, not even close."

"Well actually, if you take the average age of man as being three score …"

"No. Enough." Quickly trying to change the subject John then asked "What was the idea yesterday? Had you run out of clothes or something?"

And as cool silver-blue eyes swept over him John realised what he'd said. A deep red flush of embarrassment flooded his face.

"No, I was hot."

There was something in the way Sherlock said 'hot' that had John replying "Yes!" in an almost sensual whisper. His face burned and he looked away, knowing that the other man couldn't have failed to hear the word.

And he waited, because somewhere in the universe there was a thunderbolt with his name on it, courtesy of whichever God hated men who couldn't admit to bi-sexual urges – the God who knew that John lied every time he opened his mouth and declared "I'm not gay!"

It didn't happen. No thunderbolt from the blue, no roar of anger from the Gods – just the sound of Sherlock's phone ringing.

Peering back at his flatmate John could see Sherlock had not taken his eyes from him, nor changed his expression as he spoke to the caller. As he ended the call he swallowed down the last of his tea.

"Lestrade needs us." He said, heading towards his bedroom. "You have five minutes to get ready."

"What? Wait…" but it was too late, Sherlock had already disappeared, closing his bedroom door firmly behind him.

And now here they were – here he was – and Sherlock was definitely taunting him with every move, every sway of those slim hips and every wiggle of that pert bum.

And John's brain ground to a halt.

Where had that thought come from?

He gritted his teeth so hard it made his head hurt.

"You alright?"

Greg's voice made him jump guiltily.

"Um…yeah?"

"Don't sound too sure there mate." The detective chuckled. "And I imagine your dentist will have something to say about the way you're grinding you teeth there – what's up?"

John forced his jaw to loosen up.

"Nah, really – just a bad day at the surgery yesterday, this chicken pox epidemic…"

Greg took a not-so-subtle step away.

"That um, that showing any signs of slowing up?"

"Not really," despite his words John found that he had to smile. "But I'm not contagious Greg, not a carrier, and if you've had it before you're fairly well protected against getting it again."

"Thank God for that!" Greg blew out a breath and grinned a little sheepishly. "Heard it's not good to catch it as an adult."

John nodded, his attention drawn back to Sherlock.

Was his hand sliding up over his….? John's eyes widened comically as his eyes followed the movement of slim fingers as they came to rest over slender hips.

"This is bike related Lestrade."

"And?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"And it looks like there's a new motorcycle gang in town." He shook his head in disgust. "They are under the impression they are in some kind of Hollywood film, only it's my belief that this…" he waved a hand vaguely at the body. "…person probably told them to grow up."

"How do you work that out?" Sally sneered.

"The victim is in his thirties, given the fading ink on his tattoos, his clothes tell us he's a biker, and the fact that he wears back protection tells us he's outgrown the stupid antics of his youth and is old enough to appreciate the added protection."

Moving to the head of the body Sherlock continued "The type of injury is typical of that which you would find where the perpetrator is being egged on by his peers, they probably objected to being given what is essentially some good advice."

"Amazing." John couldn't help himself.

Sally Donovan huffed and turned away.

Sherlock preened and strode towards the door.

"You should be able to work it out from here." He said as he passed Lestrade. "Come along John."

xXx

Dividing the Indian take-away between two plates John froze. That was the second time Sherlock had brushed past him, too close to be strictly necessary yet as before, when John looked at him he seemed totally oblivious. He pushed aside the thought that maybe it was him, that his body was swaying close to his flatmate, and concentrated on making sure the food was evenly distributed

Turning to finish making tea he turned straight into Sherlock, whose arms came around him as if to steady him, but John hadn't been aware that he was overbalanced.

"What…?"

"Careful John." Sherlock smiled.

"Um yeah, thanks."

John frowned. Was it his imagination that Sherlock held him just a bit too close, just a bit too long? He shook his head, he was going the right way about driving himself mad, and all because his genius flatmate had literally laid himself bare the previous night.

Sitting in his chair Sherlock watched through lowered lashes, deducing every thought that moved through John's mind and paraded itself across his tired, too open face.

"If you could change just one thing about the time we've shared this flat," he asked as John handed him a tray and sat down with his own dinner. "What would it be?"

John blinked.

"Change? What brought that on? Are you having second thoughts about a flat share?" John's stomach twisted – maybe this had been Sherlock's way of trying to drive him away.

"What? No!" Sherlock's eyes widened momentarily, then he relaxed back into his chair. "Just humour me, look on it as part of an experiment."

"That doesn't sound particularly reassuring."

"John, John, trust me."

John nearly choked.

"Definitely not reassuring." He laughed. "Would I change anything? Yeah, that experiment you did on my favourite jumper..."

"I bought you a new one!"

"Not the same, although I appreciate the thought. I would have appreciated you at least asking permission first."

"Look, we've been through this already John, and you've already admitted that you would have said no."

"Beside the point." John stuffed an onion bhaji into his mouth and chewed, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's. He swallowed and grinned. "So, what do you deduce from that?"

"Only that my methods of acquiring test subjects if far better than your suggested method of asking first – as Mummy always said, it's far easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission..."

"Your mum leaves a lot to be desired as a parent."

"Hmmm." Sherlock agreed.

For a while they ate in silence, then John, swigging down the last of his tea, asked

"What about you? What would you change?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered to John's face.

"What?" John frowned.

"I'd stop myself from telling you that I consider myself married to my work."

Sherlock's voice was so low John wasn't entirely sure he had heard correctly. His mouth opened but no sound came out.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes...no...wait." Standing up, John took his and Sherlock's now empty dinner trays to the kitchen, dumping them unceremoniously on the only clear space on the table before returning, jelly legged, to his seat.

Taking a deep breath John steeled himself to ask.

"Are you actually saying...that there is something more important in your life than the work?"

"No not some_thing_ John, some_one_." Silver-blue eyes stared into John's face, almost willing him to understand the implication of his words.

"Jesus!" Realisation hit, taking John's breath away.

Sherlock barely breathed, waiting seemingly for the axe to fall, the fight-or-flight reaction quivering his muscles was obvious even to his unobservant flatmate.

"You mean..." John stopped, thought a moment, then smiled. "You mean I've been perfecting the 'I'm not gay' litany for no reason?"

"I...yes?"

"You git! How long?"

"Since you shot Jeff Hope, since we giggled at that crime scene, since you told Mycroft to his face that you though he was some kind of criminal mastermind..."

"That first night then? And here we are, years later, and you're only just telling me this?"

"I wanted to... then you said you weren't gay and I thought I'd misread – that you actually hadn't meant what I thought you had meant... then recently I realised..."

John's eyebrows rose, and he nodded encouragement.

"I realised that I no longer needed to sabotage your dates..."

"Aha! I _knew_ that's what you were doing!"

"Obvious John." Sherlock shrugged. "I realised you were making a good enough job of sabotaging them yourself."

"Tell me about it. Every one of them said they got fed up with me constantly checking my phone for texts..."

"John."

John stopped talking and looked at Sherlock.

"What do you propose we do about this situation?"

"Is it a situation, Sherlock?" John tilted his head to one side. "I mean, from my point of view it's a relief – and the question you should be asking is 'my room or yours?'"

Standing up, Sherlock held out his hand.

"Mine I think." He answered, taking hold of John's hand.

Slowly they traversed the hall to Sherlock's room, sharing tentative kisses and touches, only the sound of their breathing disturbing the quiet of the flat. As they reached the bedside both were trembling, desperate to remove the other's clothing, haste making their fingers clumsy.

A light caress of fingertips across the gnarled and twisted scar on his should brought John back to his senses and he froze.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked his fingers snatched away from injured flesh. "Did I hurt you?"

"I... no..." John looked away. "I've never been with a man before – not like this."

Those long fingers that moments ago were caressing his shoulder now turned his face back up, and cupid's bow lips gently kissed along John's jaw line until they reached his lips.

"We can take this as slow as you need." He said when he had finally finished his slow exploration of John's face. "I won't rush you, I've waited this long."

John opened his mouth to thank him but Sherlock's fingers stopped him.

"Come to bed." He whispered. "Just let me lie with you, hold you."

John nodded, pulling back the duvet and climbing onto the crisp white sheets.

"You knew I'd say yes."

It was a statement, not a question, and climbing in beside him Sherlock shook his head.

"I hoped." Was all he said.

The silence stretched, yet surprisingly it was not uncomfortable, it was companionable – a natural extension of their friendship.

"This is it then?" John said finally. "We're just going to lie here like this all night?"

Rolling John onto his side and shuffling up behind him, Sherlock reached around and as his hand closed around John's cock he whispered in the good doctor's ear "Tonight John, there are endless **possibilities.**


End file.
